


The Pap Who Loved Me

by EternallyCullen



Category: Twilight Series - Stephenie Meyer
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-06-06
Updated: 2012-07-14
Packaged: 2017-11-07 01:45:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/425547
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EternallyCullen/pseuds/EternallyCullen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bella Marie isn't exactly America's Sweetheart, nor the girl next door, but she's certainly a superstar who can't escape the paparazzi. Everything she does is scrutinized - not that she cares. What if one Pap's work boarders on obsession?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author of this story. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any previously copyrighted material. No copyright infringement is intended.
> 
>  
> 
> Thank you to my team of pre-readers. I love your suggestions and comments. Massive kudos to my beta, LisaDawn75. Without her I'd be a mess.

"BELLA!"

"BELLA! TO YOUR RIGHT!"

"LOOK UP!"

"COME ON! TURN AROUND!"

"BELLA! OI! LOOK UP!"

"BELLA! THIS WAY PLEASE!"

Smile, turn, hand on my hip. Smile. Love them with your eyes. Turn around, show off the dress. Look happy. Look like you want to exist...

And move on to the next crowd. Don't forget to smile at them and thank them.

On the red carpet, it's simple. You stand, you pose, and you let them get their shot. Your publicist pulls you away, and you move onto the next pen. You will pose alone and then with your co-stars. It's easy, and it's safe.

Apart from the fucking freezing cold weather and teeny-tiny and hideously thin designer dresses, it's okay. You'd think that with designers begging for me to wear their gowns, I'd have enough clout to say, "Actually, you know what, Mr Gucci? It's fucking December. How about you make me a pretty dress out of wool? You know, maybe with a sheepskin lining?" But no, it's lace... with a few beads. And yes, it looks awesome, and I really like it... but it's freaking cold, and the last thing I want to do is stand over and over again in front of the paparazzi.

Nipple-Ons are so last year, yet as soon as they're visible, zoomed in pictures are everywhere. Some people even consider chilled-nips to be along the same lines as up-skirt shots. Seriously? My nipples through my dress or the entire world getting a peek at my coochie as I get out of the car? I know which one is better.

I quite like the idea of looking like a human Ugg Boot. I seriously think it's a step forward. Screw being voted Best Dressed. I'd rather be warm and comfortable.

But like I said, the premiere's are not so bad. It's controlled. They know what I'm doing here – they can't question that. They know what they're getting. Me, promoting my new movie, dressed up to the nines, with makeup artist on hand and family waiting for me inside the theatre.

Off the carpet, however, it's a totally different story. It's scary, and it's dangerous. It's all about car chases and denial of freedom. They lurk around every corner as though they're trying to catch me out somehow.

When you are a young celebrity in Los Angeles, your life isn't your own. Every move you make is recorded and scrutinized. You go out and get a cheeseburger, and five minutes later, a blog has published that you have bulimia. You meet a friend for lunch, and you're automatically cheating on your partner. And God forbid, you ever have to visit the hospital...

I'm used to hearing camera shutters now, but they still make me jump as I walk out of my house and get into my vehicle.

Some of them talk. Hell, some of them I even know by name. Some of them don't say a word. They just run, get in my face, and click away till they've got 'the shot'. It drives me crazy. Fucking hell, dude, I'm buying a goddamn cup of coffee. Why do you need to press that damn thing and take fifty photos of me handing over my three dollars and ninety five cents for my hazelnut latte?

I know what you're thinking: as a celebrity, it all comes as a part of the package. You wanted the fame, and stardom comes with its costs.

I didn't really ask for it, as such. If you'd asked me as a small child what I wanted to be when I grew up, I probably would have said that I'd have liked to be a nurse... or maybe a forensic scientist. But at the age of eleven, I was discovered by a little corporation known as Disney. And it all went on from there. By thirteen, I had two major motion pictures under my belt plus a kids' TV game show and my own a mini-series on The Disney Channel. By sixteen, I'd got two Kids' Choice awards, an Emmy, and a Golden Globe.

And by eighteen, I had added an MTV Music Award and an Oscar nomination to my collection... Oh, and I was also apparently in rehab.

Only I wasn't. Wrong place, wrong time, and a shit load of Chinese whispers. Long story short, I was photographed smoking pot with a friend. I was an idiot... Oh, and I may or may not also have had a crate of beer next to me ... so, clearly, I was obviously a pothead and an alcoholic.

Disney dropped me like a sack of shit. There was no rehab, but I did have to prove to a lot of people that I wasn't just another child-star who'd run themselves into the ground before they were out of their teens. I think they were getting me confused with Lindsay Lohan. Nice girl, that Lindsay.

So, for the last four years and nine movies, I've not had a day's peace. Every time I set foot outside, I know they are going to be there. I don't even bother acknowledging them anymore. What's the point? I'd only end up flipping them the bird or telling them to fuck off. And what would that get me, really?

The blogs would fucking love it, I'm sure... again. It's such a damn controversy when I give people the finger. I have no idea why, and if I'm honest, I don't give a shit what people think. I don't care if it's tacky. I'm twenty two years old, damn it. It's not like I'm hurting anyone. If you don't like me, then don't stalk me.

I'm pulled back to reality by Tanya, my publicist, tapping me gently on the shoulder. "Bella, we need to move on. They want you to stand with Garrett and Emily next."

Great. My secretly fucking co-stars.

I nod and flash Tanya a small smile before turning back to the first of the press-pits, giving them a small wave and a nod – which in my world was universal for 'thank you very much for photographing me and making yourselves a few bucks.'

"OI! BELLA, DON'T GO! COME ON, GIVE US A SMILE! TURN AROUND."

I sigh and put on my best happy face before shooting them all a dazzling smile over my shoulder. The shutters echo, and I'm momentarily stunned by the bright flashes off their cameras. The back of my dress is awesome, I know it, as do they as they're happily snapping away, getting their shots.

I really want to flip them off. Get everyone talking. But apparently it's not red carpet etiquette, and seeing as there will be kids watching the movie, flipping the birdie might not be the best idea. The press will be all over it like a rash, and bad press... it's, well, bad press. Tanya would be mad, and she gets pissy when she has to do damage control.

Pissy Tanya isn't fun. Seriously, she is scary, and I sort of need her. She's far more useful when she's talking to me.

I want nothing more than to get these four inch heels off and put my raggedy old Chucks on, but apparently, they don't like Converse on the red carpet, either. It was only okay when I worked for The Mouse.

So, I carry on. I stop when I'm asked, I smile sweetly, and try and help them all get their shots. I make a good impression, I remember who I'm wearing, and I try to answer the interview questions without 'umming' too much. I have a good chat with MTV's Josh, and thankfully, he sticks to the subject of the movie, which I'm grateful for. Others' attempt to go off topic and bring up my failed relationship with my ex-boyfriend of three years, Eric, who recently all but leapt out of the closet and married some dude called Tyler... whilst we were still dating.

Yeah. The press love me. I'm the successful twenty-two year old child actor brat who turns hunky actors gay. That's just me, Bella Marie. I'll just wait and see what the next thing will be, but I'm betting it's going to be lesbianism. I've not been called gay myself yet, so I think it's about time. Maybe they'll think I'm doing Tanya. We spend enough time together, after all, and she's the closest thing I have to a friend in the world.

When I've not pissed her off with my shenanigans, as she refers to my behaviour.

The movie is great. The after party in a huge hotel suite is pretty awesome. The director has left us each gift bags with little keepsakes from filming. The champagne flows freely, as usual, and I'm left a little worse for wear.

I like to party hard at these events, so it's almost five in the morning when I decide to call it a night, and along with my bodyguard, Steve, we head outside to get into the hired Audi.

I'm sure I stumble – a lot – on the way to the car. Steve has his arm around me as he shoves away the much larger men with their damn cameras who are literally screaming in my face.

"So, how was the movie? Are you happy with it?"

"Bella, have you been drinking tonight?"

"When are you going back to rehab?"

"Were you affected by Eric and his husband showing up tonight?"

I don't answer those questions; I just pull my beanie across my head and half run and half stumble into the car with Steve's help. I start to buckle up when I see a lone flash which comes from the front of the car. I glare out of the windshield and spot a hypnotic pair of green eyes just staring at me. Upon closer inspection, he clutches a camera tightly to his chest. I can't look away.

Like me, he dons a plain black beanie. He has a lot of stubble and pouty lips. Even through the semi-beard, I can see a delectable jaw line that calls out to be licked.

The camera flashes at me again.

I realise then I've seen this guy before. Over the last week, he seems to have appeared everywhere. The silent one.

Pissed, I yell out of the car, "Yo, Chaplin!" And then I do what it is I do best.

I fucking flip him the bird.

Flashes go wild and I smirk to myself as I recoil back into the soft leather interior of the Audi.


	2. I just want a smoke!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author of this story. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any previously copyrighted material. No copyright infringement is intended.
> 
> Authors Notes: Thank you so much to my amazing team: LisaDawn75, my wifey for all intents and purposes and beta, plus my fabulous team of pre-readers: NeonBurning, TantalizingTwi, LydiaEstelle and naurarwen, You ladies rock my world.

The Pap Who Loved Me

Chapter 2

 

The week following L.A.’s world premiere of _Code Red_ is fairly normal. I am pulled from one place to another, hopping off planes in several different countries for press junkets with my co-stars. Garrett and Emily use the time away from the craziness of L.A. to be _not so secret_. Although I am happy for them to be able to just be themselves, I am getting a little tired of the constant PDA, so I begin to partake with staying in my hotel rooms and ordering room service at nights. It also means that I get to escape the European paparazzi that are still intent on capturing our every move.

Madrid, Berlin, and Paris in five days is exhausting. Early starts, long junkets, and meeting with fans. It’s fun, though, and at least the flights between the locations are not too bad, just being an hour or so.  It is still surreal to me that you can get from one country to another so fast when it would take several hours to fly across North America alone.

My favourite place in Europe is England. I freaking love it... aside from the cold weather. I just find it so... quaint. Dude, that’s such a stupid word, but I don’t know what it is about the place. I love the buildings, the churches, the castles, the rolling greenery, and the forests. It’s a pretty awesome place. I can honestly see myself settling down here one day or at least buying a flat to spend my time off in.  So, when on Sunday we touch down at London Heathrow, I am immediately looking forward to the next couple of days.

Who knows, I might even get to stand on my hotel balcony and have a cigarette without being scrutinised. I'm fully aware that it's a disgusting habit, but I'm only human. We all have flaws, and I'm the first to admit that I'm not perfect.

We arrive at our hotel, and Steve and the rest of our security team get us in quickly. There are two photographers who are bundled up in thick parkas and wool beanies lying in wait, but they're happy, and they leave us be once they have caught us entering. We give them a smile and a friendly wave to show that we are thrilled to be in London, and one of them actually thanks us for our time and wishes us a pleasant stay. I like England. I still can't exactly walk around alone and undetected during the day, but it's certainly a lot easier to blend in than it is in Los Angeles.

Yeah. I can absolutely see myself living here one day.

 

***

 

Jesus fucking Christ. The wind chills me to the bone and is whipping hell on my fancy up-do. I am trying my hardest not to shiver, and I’m hoping that the goose-bumps won’t show too much in the photos.  

Red carpet events and premiers in England during December are even colder than the ones in Los Angeles. It’s bitterly cold.

It still confuses me as to why in the world people camp out at these events. A group of young women at the front of the barriers of the red carpet have put up a poster stating that they have been there for no less than thirty-four hours! I think it's slightly insane, but I really appreciate supportive fans. I just wish they wouldn't try to get hypothermia in December.  I stop to sign for them and ask them if it’s true. Aside from the epic teeth-chattering, they seem really happy and excited. I’ll never understand it myself.

About half an hour into my red carpet walk, before I reach the press pens, I grab Tanya. "I can't feel my fucking toes!" I’m trying to hint that it’s time she pulled my flats out of the bag. It’s worth a try, but I know she will never just hand them over.

Tan smirks and pulls her cashmere coat around her lean frame. Bitch even got to wear panty hose. Wish I'd thought to do that. Instead, I am getting frostbite in a _Dior_ mini. My feet are numb in my four inch Lebutauns _,_ and I feel just a little more than uncomfortable.  If I’m allowed an opinion, I’ll say that Leicester Square red carpets are far too long. I think the film companies should only allow this to happen during the summer.

Get me and my selfishness. Does that make me a diva? Perhaps. Do I give a shit? Nope.

I manage to sign a few more autographs and pose for some pictures with the fans before I get dragged away to the press pits. There are less of them than at the world premiere, but their demands all sound the same.

"COME ON, TURN AROUND! WE'RE ALL FREEZING AND WANT TO GO HOME!"

"BELLA! BELLA! TO YOUR RIGHT, PLEASE!"

"GIVE US A SMILE, LOVE! YOU'VE GOT A FACE LIKE A SLAPPED ARSE!"

_Must not flip off the pap... must smile and carry on... Jesus, I sound like one of those damn stupid Keep Calm posters. So much for the polite Brits._

So, I smile and try not to look as cold as I feel.  As an actress, I spend a great deal of my time pretending that I’m something I’m not, but being warm when you’re actually freezing your tits off is a pretty hard role to play. I’d rather save the world from evil, flying super villains any day.

Tanya and I skip the movie after we’ve been onstage in both the Empire and Odeon, and I’m finally allowed to put something on that makes me feel a little more human. Jeans, a long sleeved shirt, my favorite leather jacket, and today’s flats of choice are my Nikes. Absolute comfort. I yank out the thirty-something pins holding my hair into my tight up-do and let my long, dark hair fall down my back. Bliss. I’m me again.

Tanya rides with us to the after party, and I’m pleased to see that some of my other cast members are already here, having forgone the movie experience, also. I fucking hate watching myself on screen over and over again. While I love this movie because it’s by far one of the most exciting projects I’ve worked on, there’s only so many times I can watch myself on the screen. After a while, I start to pick faults. And that’s annoying.

Tanya makes her excuses and gets back to the hotel. Steve offers to take her back. I reckon they’re screwing. He always seems to want to spend time with her. I think they’re a pretty good match. Unfortunately, it leaves me with Bob. I swear he’s a freaking rookie, and he talks way too much. I know I tend to lack a verbal filter, but some of the dipshit stuff that comes out of this dudes mouth... I don’t even know where to start. But I do know how to say a few phrases in Klingon. To each their own.

For the most part, Bob leaves me alone, and I enjoy my champagne. It’s washed down nicely with a couple of bottles of American beer. Feeling a nice buzz, I step outside to have a quick smoke. Bob is busy talking to the very bored looking server behind the bar.

It’s busy outside, there’s security about, and a few people I know are socializing and sipping drinks together. Not really wanting to talk to anyone, I lean casually against the wall and light up. I take a long drag and exhale as I stare out into the cold London night. Thank God for gas patio heaters which have been thoughtfully placed on tables scattered around the smoking area.

Once I’m done, I put my butt out in my now empty bottle of Bud and shiver. The temperature has dropped suddenly once again. I wrap my arms around myself and realize that almost everyone has gone back into the party.

Click.

Click. Click. Click.

I spin around to see the flash in the dark. Am I really that interesting? I try to ignore it and act nonchalant as I lean back against the wall and close my eyes. I want nothing more than to get back to my hotel, order some room service, and just relax. So, I pick up my cigarettes and put them in my back pocket, along with my phone, and make my way back into the party to see if I can find Bob to take me back to my hotel.

The invasive shutter noise continues, but now it’s closer. It’s coming from right in front of me, just behind the eight foot tall railings I’m enclosed in.

I step closer. The flashes stop. I take another step and the perp is in my line of sight. He’s crouched down.  He lowers his Nikon to his chest and raises his eyes to mine.

Deep, hypnotic pools of emerald. So familiar, I’m sure I’ve seen them somewhere before. I study his face – plump pouted lips, two-day old stubble, and a black wool beanie pulled rightly over his head. He licks his lips and smiles at me, a hint of white teeth showing. I wrap my arms around me again, my leather jacket not the best wind breaker, and move closer until there is just a foot and an iron railing between us.

“You get the shot you wanted?” I ask, frowning. I half expect him to raise his camera and start snapping again – but he doesn’t. He just gets to his feet.

He’s got to be over six feet tall. His height and close proximity is somewhat intimidating, but I can’t step away from him. It’s almost as though my legs aren’t working. I’m drawn to his eyes.

“Have we met?” I ask.  I know we have, and I realize that he’s the one I’ve been referring to as _the silent one..._

He smirks. “You recognize me?”

I nod. “Chaplin? You follow me?”

“Always. It’s my job.” His voice is smooth like velvet; his quiet English accent is doing things to me. I shiver involuntarily – not from the cold this time.

“Why?” I ask, my voice raising slightly. “Why is every aspect of my life so damn important to you guys? Can’t I even have the tiniest spec of privacy?”

The Brit pap’s smirk fades, and he looks away for a moment and shrugs.

“You know what? Fuck you, dickwad. Leave me the fuck alone. You want your shot, here, take it – I don’t give a shit anymore!”

He steps away from the railing and looks confused. I mirror his movement and flip him off... with both hands. The double whammy.

“Go on, what are you waiting for?” I yell, the anger rolling off me in waves.  Chaplin shakes his head sadly and backs off some more.

I jump when I feel a hand on my shoulder. Never have I been so happy to see Bob, but where in the hell was he two minutes ago? Silently, he leads me back through and into the party. I’m no longer in the mood to celebrate, and he calls for the car to collect us at the side entrance.

He’s not there when I leave. No one is.

 

 

 


End file.
